


Moonlight in Vermont

by KindListener



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Office Sex, Older Man/Younger Man, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-07 11:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21457291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KindListener/pseuds/KindListener
Summary: Don Draper’s new intern is quite the suck-up.
Relationships: Don Draper/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	1. Ghostwriter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Paying it Forward](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3917542) by [Steadfxst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steadfxst/pseuds/Steadfxst). 

> probably gonna get longer ngl bc i’m a slut for jon hamm

Manhattan, New York City: a city of liars, drunks and hypocrites. My kind of city. Blood flows through the sewers of these streets and, it seems, whoever’s closest to Don Draper controls Manhattan and the blood that runs just under its skin.

Mister Don Draper. I never thought I’d get here. Shit. Fuck. I never fucking thought I’d be sitting here, at his desk, staring him right in his pretty goddamn face. I never even knew he was so good-looking. As a marketing intern, from a town 3,355 miles away, I managed to get a place at Sterling Cooper’s. I stare into his black eyes for what seems like a silent century. Smoke curls into the still air and I watch his lips part to accept the cigarette. Those soft, pink lips. I have to suppress a shudder.  
“Listen, kid. Stay on my good side, yeah?” I nod and smile. I’ll do better than that, Mister Draper.

It’s been about six months since I started at Sterling Cooper’s. Six months of ‘yes, Mister Draper’, ‘of course, Mister Draper’ and, when I’m really having to try, ‘yes, of course, sir’. I glance at the clock, half nine at night. Sprawled across his desk, I can feel his large hands palming across my bare chest and outstretched legs. My shirt is open but my pants are still, firmly, on. I don’t do anything without his say-so. My clammy skin clings to his suit, now simply falling off him. His coat hangs over his high-back chair but his tie is loose, the first buttons on his shirt undone and his dress pants are straining, making way for the...the... Oh, my God... Between my legs, Don ruts against my own erection. His is nine inches of fucking paradise and I can’t help but whine when he digs his nails into my sternum.

I was born in the midst of the war, 1941, after some Nazi bastard decided to take his chance with an unwilling, English girl. I never knew her. Wish I did. Wish I could say sorry. For what? I don’t know. I was tossed around, from orphanage to orphanage, until I was twelve, then I started as a paperboy. I stunk of printer ink, most of the time. It wasn’t until ‘59 where I saw the shining lights of New York, in a paper I was delivering, and I knew what I wanted to do.

He’s fifteen years older than me. I’ve always had a thing for older men. Don’s almost old enough to be my dad but not quite. I wonder how many guys he’s been with. Not many, most likely, judging by his serial womaniser status. He’s probably had girls falling at his feet for the best part of thirty years but I had him hook, line and sinker. We fuck. That’s it. Pressure builds up, fast, in our line of work and I’m only so happy to help.

Sure, I don’t think they liked that I was foreign but enough of the secretaries I’d met were swayed by my ‘charming’ accent and my bow tie that I, finally, got that initial interview with Mister Draper. I don’t think he’s been called sir since the army. It’s not a good thing, it’s not a bad thing. It’s just a thing. Because he knows, deep down, that when I say it, I mean it. I’m completely at his disposal, much like right now.

“Filthy, little thing. This how they do it in England?” He husks and I shudder, letting a weak chuckle escape me, his dexterous fingers finding my belt buckle and stripping me of my pants and briefs, pulling both over my shoes and tossing them to the floor. Fondly, he snaps my sock suspenders before glancing up at me, rock hard and red in the face. His hair is askew, ever so slightly. He grasps at my chin and forces me to look at him. “But you’re such a good boy.” I whine at that and he wraps a palm around my cock and I have to force myself not to buck up into his grip. “Turn over.”

I do as he asks. His gaze feels like fire, searing every inch of flesh that it touches. He sits back in his chair, palming himself through his dress pants as I prop myself up on my knees. He lets out a huffed chuckle when I lick my fingers and slide them into my ass, stretching myself open for him. In a moment, when I’m not looking, he snaps his pants open and tugs down his briefs, exposing those thick nine inches of fucking heaven. Draper was fucking blessed. What I wouldn’t give to suck him off all goddamn day. He stands from his chair and presses the underside of his cock against my exposed hole, rutting against the spit-slick entrance as I arch into the motion. The hot flesh of his cock is pressed, tightly, against the sensitive flesh and I can feel him twitch with want. One hand grabs at my ass and the other in my hair.  
“On your back.” He demands and I can hear the waver in his voice.

I do as he asks. This gorgeous, powerful man, wounded and tortured by war, made twisted and sick by the city. I look up and I can see my death. Death in a fallen city, raised to the ground, populated by angels. My life flashes before my eyes and I’m full to the brim.  
“Oh, fuck!” I squeal as he enters me with a rough thrust. I wrap my calves around his hips and my hands fly to his shoulders, dragging him down so I can taste the sweat on his skin. Thirty-four and fucking a man of nineteen with such vigour. “God, yes! Mister Draper!” My eyes roll to the back of my head and I’m seeing stars as he draws in and out of my fragile frame. His breath is hot and heavy in my ear as he bows his head against the crook of my neck.

There’s a nostalgic element to musk-based colognes that speaks of power and dominance. A musk-based cologne is a wise choice for any sex-crazed, smoke-obsessed creative lead who wants to exude the air of a manly, red-blooded male. I smell it on his skin when he draws in close. Dark, brooding, dominant men became the sex gods of the new age, the minute the fifties were over. Colognes began to follow suit with exotic odors and suave ad campaigns. No doubt, Don Draper was behind many of their inspirations; the man who plays to win, whatever the game.

He suckles on the skin of my throat, pinching it with his teeth until it’s red raw. He sucks my skin through his teeth and I can’t help but gasp against his shoulder. His palms are planted either side of my head and I find myself in the most comfortable cage I’ve ever had the pleasure to be in. His sweat-slicked skin is fire against my own and I can’t help but buck against his cock. In a hot second, the head dips against a spot inside me that makes me scream.

A groan tears through my body as I hear him sob, feeling a shudder wrack through him. His thrusts become shallow and fast. I pull back, pushing against his chest so he looks me in the eyes. His cheeks are stained with tears and his lips are swollen.  
“Don. Don?” Breathless and worried, he stares at me, blankly, for a moment and I can’t help but move in to kiss him. The kiss is chaste and caring and reassuring and— Oh, God... Don’t fall for him, you can’t fall for him. For God’s sake, don’t do it. He bites at my lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. Between the iron in his mouth and the pressure in his belly, Don Draper spends himself, deep, in the ass of the best goddamn intern he’s ever had.

After the aftershocks have echoed through him, we untangle our limbs from each other and he collapses into his office chair with a deep sigh and a shuddering breath. I sit up, come drooling onto the desk and over the edge.  
“Don.” I repeat, softly, fingers only just brushing the crook of his neck. He jerks away from the touch and I can’t help but cup his cheeks and forcing him to look up at me. “Don.” I try again and this time he responds, gasping and sobbing. I hold him close until the shivers subside and I pepper his cheeks with kisses. I pull back to look at him. Don Draper; a cracked, china doll, haphazardly taped back together by the pride and ignorance of patriotism. He mumbles something under his breath, over and over, as I press his head to my chest.  
“... I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...” He can hear my heartbeat, slow and consistent, as I stroke his hair and he seems to stop. I shush him and hum a lullaby I heard a long time ago.

It isn’t wise but, I think, I’m falling in love with Don Draper, my cracked, china doll.


	2. Nights in White Satin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve been writing this for an hour and a half and now i’m falling asleep

He’s never taken me back to his before. I didn’t think he wanted me that close. Now, it’s different. He’s shown me his vulnerability. He unlocks his door and we make our way in. His apartment isn’t glorious and modern, like I thought it would be, but it’s homey and cozy. I sigh as I take in the full-bodied scent of him; the cigarette smoke, the scotch, the high-end cologne, the sweaty sex, the gun metal. Don.

He presses me to the door, the moonlight filters through the blinds and casts stripes all along the walls. His lips are soft and experienced but nervous against my own. My fingers thread into his dark hair, deepening the kiss as he brings his palm up the side of my thigh. Pictures of his army brothers and racks of medals hang from the wall that I can see as Don sandwiches me between himself and the door, hitching my legs around his waist.  
“Don—” He cuts me off as a palm slams onto the wood beside my head.  
“You’re not to speak.” He snaps back, nipping at my lips and tearing my shirt open. I nod, silently, and he carries me over to the bed, dropping me on the cushy mattress. Desperately, he strips off his coat, then his tie, then his shirt and his undershirt and I shudder as more and more of his marble-like skin is revealed to me. He stops. Looks at me. “Come here.”

He looks disheveled and needy. I slide off the bed, the panels of my shirt fluttering with the movement. His eyes settle on my collarbones and he reaches up, the pad of his thumb brushing against the exposed skin. The movement is unexpectedly tender. Blessedly soft fingers, gently, pulls the shirt from my shoulders and draw my vest over my head. He’s fragile and so, so broken. The amount of tenderness he expresses makes me nearly tear up. His finger cups the underside of my chin and raises it, gently. Two, noir figures liasing, in the lines of moonlight that filter through his blinds. Leaning down, he’s hesitant to capture my lips but I, instinctively, cock my head, forcing the contact and he soon warms up to me, pulling me closer, to hold me. Don Draper, the creative exec, has his body pressed so close to my own. I throw my arms over his neck and he groans as we fall onto his bed.

His gelled hair is missed and I grip the hair on the back of his neck, eliciting a soft, deep growl from him. I end up on top of him and his hands move to cup my ass through my dress pants. Biting my lip, I grind down on him, fingers digging into the flesh of his pectorals, more to keep myself stable than anything. Dear God, I can feel him through his suit pants and it takes all my self-restraint not to dive in and take it into my mouth. I have to dismount him just to unbuckle and take off my pants. The angular tent in my briefs makes me blush as he gives me a once over. What I wouldn’t give to have Don Draper look at me like that, all the time. I lick off my briefs and crawl back on him but, now, he can grab a full handful of my bare flesh, bucking against my ass.

He’s needy, again, practically tearing down his pants and his briefs. It still amazes me; how big he is. I rut against him, leaning down to lick and kiss at his throat. Fingertips dig into my hips and he draws me closer, capturing my lips and suprising me with this heated, confident kiss. Running his slender fingers through my hair, he reaches for the lotion, on the nightstand, handing it to me. Now, I know what I have to do. Coating my fingers in lotion, I open myself up for him, bowing my head into his neck and taking in the rich scent of him, now full of need and lust. When my fingers crook against my prostate, I jerk and moan against his ear and I feel his dick twitch against my belly.  
“Mmmn... Fuck, yeah...” His breathing grows shallow and I take that as a cue to start on him. I squeeze some lotion into my palm and wrap it around Don’s cock. It’s cold, at first, but, with our body heat and the pace I start stroking him at, it soon warms up. When he’s panting and his face is flushed, I stop. It’s show time.

I straddle his hips and sink into his cock. He fills me and I sigh, dreamily.  
“Don...” I sigh and he grabs onto my hand, tangling his fingers with my own.  
“James...” I nearly come when I hear him say my name, nevermind in that tone of voice. I begin to move and he soon picks up the pace and I’m bucking and bouncing at his speed. “God, James, you’re so...” He doesn’t finish his sentence.  
“Don, you...feel so...goddamn good...” I sigh through breathless moans and he pulls me down, kissing and biting at my throat. In the bars of blue light, I tangle my free hand in my hair, feeling Don wrap a hand around my cock. A gasp leaves me and I’m trapped in his pleasure cage, that keeps me between him and complete rapture.  
“I’m... I’m... Holy shit...” He groans, breathlessly, bucking against me, his hand tightening on my fingers. I feel him spend inside me and that’s enough for me. My insides tighten around his dick, wringing him dry and he lets out one, last moan. Shuddering breaths see me spending into his palm, half my come landing on his chest and belly.  
“Don, I... Holy Hell...”


End file.
